you,” Clark told him.
“How many?”
“Ten plus me.”
“Okay, your chem gear’s in the aircraft. Suit up, and we go. Latrine’s that way,” Boyle pointed. It would be better for every man to take a piss before the flight began. “Fifteen minutes.”
Clark went that way, and so did Kirillin. Both old soldiers knew what they needed to do in most respects, and this one was as vital as loading a weapon.
“Have you been to China before, John?”
“Nope. Taiwan once, long ago, to get screwed, blued, and tattooed.”
“No chance for that on this trip. We are both too old for this, you know.”
“I know,” Clark said, zipping himself up. “But you’re not going to sit back here, are you?”
“A leader must be with his men, Ivan Timofeyevich.”
“That is true, Yuriy. Good luck.”
“They will not launch a nuclear attack on my country, or on yours,” Kirillin promised. “Not while I live.”
“You know, Yuriy, you might have been a good guy to have in 3rd SOG.”
“And what is that, John?”
“When we get back and have a few drinks, I will tell you.”
The troops suited up outside their designated helicopters. The U.S. Army chemical gear was bulky, but not grossly so. Like many American-issue items, it was an evolutionary development of a British idea, with charcoal inside the lining to absorb and neutralize toxic gas, and a hood that—
“We can’t use our radios with this,” Mike Pierce noted. “Screws up the antenna.”
“Try this,” Homer Johnston suggested, disconnecting the antenna and tucking it into the helmet cover.
“Good one, Homer,” Eddie Price said, watching what he did and trying it himself. The American-pattern Kevlar helmet fit nicely into the hoods, which they left off in any case as too uncomfortable until they really needed it. That done, they loaded into their helicopters, and the flight crews spooled up the General Electric turboshaft engines. The Blackhawks lifted off. The special-operations troops were set in what were—for military aircraft—comfortable seats, held in place with four-point safety belts. Clark took the jump seat, aft and between the two pilots, and tied into the intercom.
“Who, exactly, are you?” Boyle asked.
“Well, I have to kill you after I tell you, but I’m CIA. Before that, Navy.”
“SEAL?” Boyle asked.
“Budweiser badge and all. Couple years ago we set up this group, called RAINBOW, special operations, counterterror, that sort of thing.”
“The amusement park job?”
“That’s us.”
“You had a -60 supporting you for that. Who’s the driver?”
“Dan Malloy. Goes by ‘BEAR’ when he’s driving. Know him?”
“Marine, right?”
“Yep.” Clark nodded.
“Never met him, heard about him a little. I think he’s in D.C. now.”
“Yeah, when he left us he took over VMH-1.”
“Flies the President?”
“Correct.”
“Bummer,” Boyle observed.
“How long you been doing this?”
“Flying choppers? Oh, eighteen years. Four thousand hours. I was born in the Huey, and grew up into these. Qualified in the Apache, too.”
“What do you think of the mission?” John asked.
“Long” was the reply, and Clark hoped that was the only cause for concern. A sore ass you could recover from quickly enough.
I wish there was another way to do this one, Robby,” Ryan said over lunch. It seemed utterly horrid to be sitting here in the White House Mess, eating a cheeseburger with his best friend, while others—including two people he knew well—Jack had learned, were heading into harm’s way. It was enough to kill his appetite as dead as the low-cholesterol beef in the bun. He set it down and sipped at his Coke.
“Well, there is—if you want to wait the two days it’s going to take Lockheed-Martin to assemble the bombs, then a day to fly them to Siberia, and another twelve hours to fly the mission. Maybe longer. The Black Jet only flies at night, remember?” the Vice President pointed out.
“You’re handling it better than I am.”
“Jack, I don’t like it any more than you do, okay? But after twenty years of flying off carriers, you learn to handle the stress of having friends in tight corners. If you don’t, might as well turn in your wings. Eat, man, you need your strength. How’s Andrea doing?”
That generated an ironic smile. “Puked her guts out this morning. Had her use my own crapper. It’s killing her, she was embarrassed as a guy caught naked in Times Square.”
“Well, she’s in a man’s job, and she doesn’t want to be seen as a wimp,” Robby explained. “Hard to be one of the boys when you don’t have a dick, but she tries real hard. I’ll give her that.”
“Cathy says it passes, but it isn’t passing fast enough for